


Memory Lane

by helsinkibaby



Series: Novembers Past [11]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-09-10
Updated: 2002-09-10
Packaged: 2018-02-13 11:02:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2148261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ginger walks down memory lane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory Lane

My palms are sweaty and my mouth is dry when I walk into my living room, my stomach doing flip-flops. And I tell myself that I'm just being silly, that what I'm doing isn't that hard, that it's time that it happened, that moving on with my life really means moving on with my life, and this is something that I've been putting off for far too long.

I want to do this.

I need to do this.

I just never realised that it was going to be this hard.

So I grit my teeth, pulling my hair back into a messy ponytail, yanking the grip so tight that it feels as if each individual strand is stretched to breaking point. My loose sweatpants and faded WVU T-shirt feel strangely tight, and despite the heat of the summer day still lingering in the evening air, I feel cold.

But I'm just being silly.

That's what I tell myself over and over as I go to the hall closet, dragging the step-ladder from its place resting under the bottom shelf, climbing up on it so that I can reach the very top shelf, the shelf that I never go to, the one that I try to pretend isn't there. And I feel, just as I know I will, a box there, and there's a pang in my chest as I take it down, noting the dust that covers the top.

The box goes down on the floor until I return the hall closet to its former state, then I carry the box over to the couch and sit down beside it, just looking at it.

It shouldn't be so hard to open it.

I should just be able to do it.

Or maybe I'm going about things the wrong way. Maybe the thing to do is just to go around the room, gathering up everything that has to go into the box, and opening the lid as quickly as I can and throwing them all in, closing the box without looking back.

Maybe that's what I should do.

I've all but made the decision that that's just what I'm going to do, but my traitorous hands are reaching out, flipping open the lid, looking at what's in there.

My life.

There's a comb there, a beaded comb that was once ivory, but is now a faded dirty beige. Not that anything ever happened to it, it's just old. Nearly ten years old now. The image invades my minds eye of when it was shiny and new, of the contrast that the creamy ivory made with my red hair, and once again I can feel the sensation of a pair of large yet gentle hands undoing the hairdresser's hard work. I can hear his laughter, and mine, ringing in my ears as, true to her word, with one tug of the comb, a cascade of red hair fell down around my face, and I can almost feel his fingers pushing it back.

Beside the comb, there's a smaller box, just big enough to hold a ring. Unlike the comb, the black velvet covering it has made no concession to age, it's still as perfect as ever. I don't want to open the box, don't need to look inside to remember, and yet I do. And it's still there, the single diamond winking in the light, just like it did all those years ago. When I open the box, I'm back there again, on a path on the way to the library on the WVU campus, a chill November wind blowing fallen leaves around my ankles, looking down on him in shock as he kneels in front of me, asking me to be his wife. I can see the audience gathering around us, hear the cheers as I said yes, feel the coolness of the ring as it slid on to my finger, feel the warmth of him in my arms as I kissed him. Remember how we abandoned our plans of going to the library in favour of going back to his dorm room, ostensibly to get him a new pair of trousers - Mr Intelligent had forgotten that the paths weren't going to be all that dry in the middle of November. Of course, once we did get back to his dorm room, getting him dressed again proved to be the last thing on either of our minds, and then we had to call our families and friends, and they were all so happy for us.

A tape, a small one, made to fit inside an answering machine. I don't need to play it to know what's on it; the message that Alan and I spent hours recording. It shouldn't take so long to record a thirty second message, I told him over and over, but he would keep making these stupid comments, making me laugh, or he'd start kissing me, and how the heck was I supposed to concentrate on talking when he was doing that? In the end, it was a simple message, using our two voices, and I played it so often after the funeral that I can still hear it now. "Hi, you've reached Ginger," would come my voice. "And Alan." His voice would take up the rest of the message. "And we're not home right now. Or we are and we're not coming to the pho-OW!" The last would be the result of the very audible smack that I administered, and his stifled laughter would be taken over by my voice, and there would be giggles just under the surface. "So leave a message at the tone and we'll get back to you." And just when you'd think that the message was over, Alan's voice would come back. "Or not. OW!" Then you'd hear us laughing again. That message got us a lot of grief from people who knew us, who would ask us things like couldn't we ever leave one another alone? Alan would shake his head solemnly in reply, but with his eyes dancing. He'd say "Nope," and laugh and I'd blush, and we'd get even more grief.

I'm blushing now at the memory.

A concert ticket, folded over and inserted into a CD cover is what my fingers brush against next, and I pull both out, freeing the ticket, looking at the date, remembering that night so long ago that we'd gone to New York to see Sting perform. Alan had always loved Sting, been a fan since the days of the Police, and while I didn't have a strong opinion about his music one way or the other at first, dating Alan, I discovered a liking for it. I didn't exactly have a choice about it. I also discovered a liking for Sting on a visceral level, something that I used to tease Alan about all the time. It was near impossible to get these tickets, I don't know how many people I had trying for me, but the look on his face when I gave them to him, not for his birthday or Christmas or any other special occasion, but just because, made it all worthwhile. That concert was one of the best I've ever been to; great music, a great performer, and the man I loved beside me, wrapping his arms around me during the slow songs.

I threw out all our Sting CDs when I moved to Washington except this one.

The yellow cover of Ten Summoner's Tales stares up at me, and I turn the CD over slowly in my hands, running my eyes down the track list that I know backwards, eyes locking finally on one song in particular. The second I see the title, I can hear the haunting melody, the poignant words, of Fields of Gold and I'm back at our wedding reception. That was the first song that the band played, our first dance as husband and wife, and we held each other close, and there might not have been another person on the planet, let alone in the room with us. We only had eyes for each other, and it was only later, when we played back the video that we realised that people were looking at us with these goofy smiles and tears in their eyes, in some cases, running down their cheeks. I can see Alan, so handsome in his tuxedo, hear his voice as he whispered the lyrics in my ear as we danced.

"I never made promises lightly."

And he never did. He was never one to rush into things, never one to play his cards too soon. But once he'd made up his mind, once he'd decided on a course of action, he was tenacious, and he didn't back off. It was that determination that saved us, when I broke up with him for those three months when I foolishly thought that I wasn't good enough for him. He kept on trying to get me to take him back, and he didn't give up. He never gave up on anything - that was one of the many things that I loved about him.

"And there have been some that I've broken."

Maybe there were, but not to me. Never to me. He promised that he'd always be there for me, and he was. That he'd love me for better, for worse, and he did. That he'd love me in sickness and in health, and he did that too. And he promised to do all that until death did us part.

And he did, trading his life for mine without a second thought.

There were days when I hated him for that, days where I was so angry that he'd gone away and left me, days where I could hardly stand to look at a photo of him. And then other days when I missed him so much that I just wanted to die, to join him.

"But I swear in the days still left, we'll walk in fields of gold."

That's what we did.

We were so happy….so happy….

The CD goes to one side, along with the comb and the ring box. I briefly consider putting it on to play, but dismiss the notion.

I can't remember the last time I listened to a Sting song all the way through, and I know that it's not going to be tonight. It can't be, not if I want to get through this.

There's a wedding booklet underneath the CD, a copy of the service that Alan and I spent so long planning. I remember all the hassle that we went through, trying to plan a wedding during our Senior Year of college, wondering if we were crazy, but it was all worth it when I stood at the foot of the aisle on my dad's arm, shaking like a leaf, wondering just when he was going to come to his senses and realise that he couldn't possibly marry someone like me. And then I remember reaching that altar, seeing him there with that smile that I loved so much, and all my fears, all my nerves just evaporated, and I just felt so safe, so secure, so loved.

I always felt that way when Alan was with me.

My breath catches in my throat when I reach blindly into the box, my hand closing on something cold and metal. And I close my eyes because I know what it is, know what I'm going to see and I don't want to.

But once again, my hand betrays me, and I find myself drawing it out.

The watch is as beautiful as I remember it, the gold of the band still catching the light, its lustre undimmed by the passing of years. The hands are still now, and you might think that it's because of the lack of use, that I've just let the battery run down. But that's not it. The hands are stuck forever at 11.17, frozen still behind a shattered glass face.

That was the moment that my life was changed forever.

I gave this watch to him on our first wedding anniversary, and the date is engraved on the back, above the number 365. I'd made dinner, and we'd had a quiet night in, just the two of us, and he'd kissed me and told me that he loved it, and that he'd never take it off. And except at night or in the shower, he never had.

I didn't cry when my mother told me that he was dead, although I have a hazy if painful memory of sobbing hysterically in the street that night when I managed to crawl over to him, when I felt the life draining out of him and begged him not to leave me.

I didn't cry when I saw his parents, when they hugged me in the hospital and told me that I would always be their daughter.

I didn't even cry when my big brother Dominic walked in, fresh off a plane from Europe, having walked out of a meeting when Mom called him with the news. Didn't cry when he put his arms around me and told me that he'd always be there for me.

But when I was going home, when the nurses gave me that envelope full of Alan's things…when I saw that watch, that's when it hit me that he was gone, that he was never coming home.

That's when I sobbed.

Even now, the sight of that watch is all it takes for tears to roll down my cheeks.

I shake my head impatiently, pushing them away with the back of my hand, taking some deep calming breaths. When I'm a little more under control, I put everything back in the box, taking some more deep breaths as I stand up, moving over to the mantelpiece, lifting the framed wedding photo there. The perfect picture of a happy couple smiles out at me, and the tears in my eyes are bittersweet, and I trace the outline of his face just one more time.

Then, quickly, before I can change my mind, I put the picture in the box.

There are more pictures scattered around the apartment, and without thinking, trying to feel as little as I possibly can, I gather them all up ruthlessly, not looking at them. I don't need to see the picture of Alan and me from our honeymoon. Or the one of us with his parents. Or the one of the two of us at my parent's anniversary party the summer before he died. Or the one of us holding Dom's son Christopher, our first godchild.

All the pictures are in the box, and it's closed up when my gaze falls on one more. This is a picture of me and Alan, and my brother Rick and his wife, his fiancée at the time, Deanna. They were two weeks away from their wedding when this picture was taken, and Alan and I had barely been married for a year. We were so happy when this picture was taken, so optimistic. Four happy, contented young people, two couples in love, with their entire lives ahead of them. And now Rick and Dee are happily married in New Jersey, not far away from where we grew up. Their first daughter was born five years ago, named Alannah, after the uncle that she never knew. They've had another little girl since then, Emily, who's now three, and Rick's dropped hints that they're trying for another.

Alan's been gone for nearly seven years.

I'm Assistant to the Communications Director of the White House.

Oh, and I think that I'm in love with my boss.

That's a hard thing for me to think. But I'm becoming more and more convinced that that's what's happening, and part of me is thrilled about it, because Toby's a wonderful man. He's been nothing but sweet to me since I began working on the campaign, since he found out about Alan. There have been moments where he's scared the life out of me, and others where he's been so kind that it makes me want to cry.

There's another part of me that's scared to death.

It's almost two years since we won our second election. Two years since that night in the Sculpture Garden when he brought me out a drink and we went back to the party arm in arm.

And in all that time, he's just been my boss. And my friend. And there have been times when I thought that it could be more than that, times that I've been sure of it.

But he's never rushed me; as if he knew that I wasn't ready for anything to happen yet.

It sounds crazy, I mean, I've dated men since Alan, mostly when the girls have set me up on blind dates. But there's been no-one serious. And I knew, without even having to discuss it with Toby, that if anything were to happen between us then it wouldn't be a one-night-stand. It would be something real.

Then Sam lost the rings at Josh and Donna's wedding, and I knew what I had to do. The look on Donna's face when I gave her those rings from around my neck put paid to any doubts that I may have had as to whether I was doing the right thing, and I smiled at her and really meant it. And later, in the Sculpture Garden once again, Toby came and found me, and this time when we went back to the party, we danced together for most of the night.

And he knew, he knew that I wasn't sure about this. Not unsure about him, but that it had been a long time for me. And once again, he didn't hurry me. He took me home that night, kissed me on the cheek and walked away.

I didn't see him outside of work until last weekend, although he called me after work just to talk, and we caught dinner a couple of the nights. But Sunday was different. For a start, we left the West Wing early. We even went out, to the park around the corner, and we had a picnic and talked about our lives and our families.

And then he got squirted by accident with a Super Soaker, which shocked the hell out of him and caused me to laugh until my sides felt as if they were going to split. I felt vaguely guilty until he joined in, and once I sobered up a little and saw how soaked he was - those things pack one heck of a wallop you know - I tried to mop him up a little.

That's when he kissed me.

We've waited so long for that kiss. Almost two years since the night of the re-election victory, and maybe even before that. Bonnie once told me that she thought Toby had a soft spot for me; I thought that she was just teasing. Maybe she was, I don't know.

I do know that the kiss was worth waiting for.

I don't know how long we stayed in the park for after that. Toby had wanted to leave, but seemed to change his mind. We talked and we laughed, and we kissed as we watched the world go by. And then he came back to my place and we watched some television and he left my place at midnight, having done no more than kiss me.

He can be incredibly sweet sometimes.

He's been here some nights this week, and I've seen him looking at the photos scattered about the place; I've told him who everyone is in them. And I could see him looking carefully at everyone, memorising names and faces, filing them away for future use. And I could see him look at Alan's face more carefully than anybody else's, as if he was trying to figure out what kind of ghost he was competing with.

But it's not like that.

Alan's gone, and I know that, and I'd never compare what I had with him to what I had with Toby. I'm different now. And these are two very different men.

One is my past.

And I'm starting to think that the other might be my future.

So I picked tonight as my time to clean out the last remains of the past from my life. It's Friday night, and I left early, leaving Toby still in his office working on some policy document or other that I'll hear all about tomorrow morning. He didn't say if he was going to come over or not, so I'm not expecting him. He'll probably call me later on, so I know that I've got plenty of time to do this.

Which is a good thing seeing as how it's taking me so long.

I'm standing in my living room, still staring at the picture of me and Alan and Rick and Deanna when the doorbell rings. I consider not answering it, then it rings again, and I wipe the tears from my eyes with one hand, still holding the picture in the other. I walk to the door, taking a deep breath, calling out, "Who's there?"

I should've known who it would be - after all, who else would it be when I'm so upset?

"Ginger, it's me," Toby calls back, and I can hear the worry in his voice, and I wince, knowing how mine would have sounded. But there's nothing for it now but to open the door and face him, there's no time to make myself presentable, and if I tell him to go away, he'll just get more stubborn and we'll end up with him banging on my door and disturbing my neighbours.

When he sees my face, he looks shocked, and the first thing he does when he steps over the threshold and closes the door behind him is pull me into his arms. The second I feel his body against mine, my arms, not for the first time tonight, act of their own accord, and throw themselves around his neck, the picture frame hitting off his back, and I feel, as well as hear him react to it. One of his hands cups the back of my head, the other makes slow circles on my back and I close my eyes as I remember what it's like to be held like this, what it's like to have someone to lean on.

When my breathing becomes more regular, he gently pushes me back, so that he can look into my eyes, and the expression on his face is a kind of concerned frown as he pushes back my hair. "You ok?"

And I nod, remembering a different time when he hugged me, a different time when he asked me that question, and I answer it the same way. "Yeah."

"You want to tell me what's wrong?" He's keeping his tone light, and my gaze drops to the picture in my hand. I stare at it until his hand appears on the frame, and I don't fight him when he takes it from me, looking up at him looking at it. When he looks back to me again, his face is a question.

I sigh, turning around and making my way back to the living room. He follows, and I notice him looking around, his gaze stopping on the mantelpiece, seeing the empty spot where our wedding picture once stood. He looks around the room slowly, taking in each similar spot, finally stopping when he gets to the box on the couch. Then he looks at me again and I shrug. "I was just…" But my throat closes over the words.

"Yeah." He sighs, putting down the picture and coming over to me. He wraps his arms around me, and I lay my head on his shoulder. I can feel him kiss the side of my head, feel him sigh as he repeats, "Yeah." We stay like that for a moment, then he pulls back, kisses the top of my head. "Why don't you go clean up? I'll finish this."

I know I shouldn't let him. I know I should do it myself. But walking down memory lane has exhausted me, drained me, and I'm so tired of being strong. I'm just so tired. "It goes on the top shelf of the hall closet," I manage to mumble, and I trudge into the bathroom, feeling his eyes on me the whole way there.

I splash my face with cold water, realising that I look just as bad as I feel. My skin is pale and blotchy, my eyes rimmed in red and heartbreak. I look too much like the woman I was six years ago, and all of a sudden, all I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep for the next three years.

But I put on my best smile and go back out to the living room, and when I get there, the first place that I look is the couch, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I see that the box is gone. A quick look at the mantelpiece ensures me that the wedding photo is gone as well, and I can hear Toby come up behind me. There's a soft clink as two mugs of coffee are placed on the table, and I turn to thank him.

When I do, my gaze falls on the table of photographs behind him, and it fells as if every molecule of oxygen has been sucked out of my body.

Standing there, just like it always has, is the picture of me and Alan and Rick and Deanna. And the one of Alan and me holding Christopher, and the one of his parents and us.

They were in the box. Those two pictures were both in the box, and the first one is the one I had in my hand when I answered the door. I turn to Toby and look at him, my hand over my chest, tears once again streaming down my face. "Why…how…?" is all I can manage.

He reaches out and places his hands on my shoulders, and he shrugs, a small smile on his face. "It's your life Ginger," he tells me. "And I know that you feel that you have to move on, and believe me, I'm happy about that." He chuckles lightly. "Very happy. But you don't have to cut out every trace of Alan. He was a big part of your life…he was a big part of you. You can't forget that…you shouldn't try."

I can feel my heart beating a mile a minute, and my words come out in breathless hiccups. "I thought that you wouldn't like…"

That's as far as I get, because he begins to shake his head. "I would never ask you to forget him," he tells me firmly. "And I would never want you to do it just to make me feel comfortable." He pauses then, taking one of my hands is his, rubbing my fingers thoughtfully. "You're going to be telling me things about your life, and your family, and they're going to tell me things about you, and Alan's name is going to come up… I don't want people feeling uncomfortable about that. You don't have to choose between us. I will never make you do that." I can't look away from him, don't want to look away from him, and he shrugs again, that same sheepish smile still on his face. "It's your life Ginger. It's you."

I draw a ragged breath. "Thank you," I whisper, stepping closer to him, wrapping my arms around his neck, turning my head so that I can see the pictures he took out of the box and put back on the table for me.

I feel a kiss on my shoulder as he murmurs, "You're welcome."

We stand there like that, my eyes on the face of my past, my head resting on the shoulder of my future. And for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, my heart is pointing in the latter direction.


End file.
